Episodes
by Blamnie
Summary: "She exists through episodes, a hundred different women all occupying the same 6 by 8 cell." Harley finds herself in the custody of Bruce Wayne
1. What's past is

Episodes

What's past is…

Prologue

Logic seemed hard to come by these days.

But in her world, one governed by the unpredictable beast of insanity, it was logic that finally won out.

Gordon had gone through a huge effort of making an example of her and just how serious he was when he turned up at the foot of Harley's hospital bed accompanied by no fewer than 11 armed police officers. He stood silently, reaching for her chart. The notes were extensive: Multiple breaks to her sternum along with five cracked ribs, a dislocated shoulder and a shattered left arm. This came along with extensive bruising and tissue damage down the entirety of her left leg.

Crime scene officials would later deduce that she had been flung from a speeding car, plummeting down a twelve foot verge beside the freeway, only to have her fall broken by the concrete beneath. Somebody didn't want her to walk away from this one.

To Gordon's surprise, his presence didn't cause much of reaction in the usually audacious young woman. She was barely even able to lift her head to acknowledge him. The morphine had temporarily drowned out her usual manic ferocity and rendered her pleasantly placid.

In all honesty, it was a welcome break from the screaming in her head.

Finally, the commissioner spoke up.

"A simple choice, Harleen." He chewed out the words. "My boys found six bodies down at the docks. All suspected murder. That's what? six life sentences, would you say?"

"And the rest."

Gordon lifted his head, a stern glaze cast over his eyes as he peered up from her chart, glaring over the rim of his glasses. "Now it's pretty clear your friend doesn't think particularly highly of you considering…" He offered his hand forward and gestured towards her body, which was more plaster than flesh at present. Harley shifted timidly under his scrutiny and withdrew further into her medicated calm.

"So, like I said, it's a simple choice. You want to jump on this grenade as well? Go down as an accomplice?"

"Cause if you want to, my boys are more than ready to take you down right now, whether you can stand on your own or not. They have no reservations about yanking you outta bed and dragging you back down to Arkham tonight." Two officers moved to either side of the bed to emphasize his point.

"Or, you could end this right now. Hand him in." She casts her gaze down, avoiding eye contact. Her brows knit together in grimace.

"This must be getting old for you now, Harleen." He continues, softer, after noticing the downward turn of her lips and the scowl on her face; akin to the tantrums of his teenage daughter. Gordon lowered himself down to meet her gaze head on. His features mimicking sympathy but his voice screaming apathy. "Just tell me where he is and you'll be granted immunity." He sighs, struggling to blurt out the last part.

"For life."

_Some choice._


	2. Veneer

**_A/N: I know the prologue wasn't much, so hopefully this chapter is a little more satisfying._**

**_Okay, so this story started as a oneshot idea but it kind of grew out of control as I was writing it. It should be roughly 6 chapters long but don't count on that because I love making work for myself._**

**_As always, reviews are more than welcome and thank you so much for reading._**

**_Disclaimer:- I don't own any of the characters, in fact I own nothing… nada _**

* * *

Veneer

Compliance is nothing but a short respite in the mind of the insane. By the time the arrests were made, Harley was already backing out of her statement, insisting that the information she slipped to Gordon was fake, that it was a trap. She began screaming when nobody would listen.

Harley was exempt from the trail which saw her beloved puddin' fall from savage grace. Instead she rattled the walls of her confinement, howling for hours on end. It was only her exhaustion which forced her to eventually give out in the end.

The next morning came too quickly as she's roughly jostled awake; the frigid metal of the cuffs being fastened around her wrists enough to jolt her into full consciousness. She's hoisted up by both her arms and dragged from her room. A shot of pain pulses throughout the left side of her body, her left arm still encased in a paster cast. She grits her teeth in discomfort as the glaring artificial light of the hallway burns into her vision.

Suddenly she turns again, becoming wild as she kicks, claws and screams in her restraints. Her foot jars out and strikes the kneecap of the guard to her right, bringing him down beside her. She lurches out, flashing her teeth in an attempt to bite him but is halted abruptly when someone yanks on the cast of her left arm. The squeal of a wounded animal forces itself past Harley's lips and she's immobilised in white-hot agony.

"Enough Harleen!" Jim Gordon's face came into view as he crouches down beside her, his grip still unrelenting on her arm.

"I lied! I lied! It was me! Ya let my puddin' go! Take me instead!" Her eyes frantic, scared even, as her sentences are delivered in between sobs, her words jumbling together.

"It's already done." Gordon sighs, rising back to his feet. "You're going home."

The man to her right brushes himself off and regains his balance. She's soon hoisted back up as the men continue to lead her forward.

"I ain't got a home!" She meekly protested, as aggression dwindled down to fear. Fear which grounded itself in her stomach, releasing the sting of bile in her throat which in turn caused her eyes to water. "He was my home."

Gordan says nothing, keeping his eyes fixed forward. A guard at the end of the hallway clocks their impending arrival and turns to unlatch a set of heavy duty doors. The room beyond them is reminiscent of a hospital waiting room, however lacking the heavy chemical odour. The furniture, walls and even the carpet were all coloured in drab hues of grey. There were no fixtures on the walls save for an off-white clock which hadn't read the correct time since it was first installed.

And there, standing in the dead centre of the soulless room was a familiar sight. A tall man, with a head of dark hair, broad shoulders and a strong jaw standing impatiently, dressed in an immaculate black suit that fits him in all the right places and screams wealth. His dark eyes cast downwards, distracted by the glaring light of his phone.

"Mr Wayne." Gordon broke the silence, catching the attention of the man, who immediately pockets his device and extends his hand out to the commissioner. His lips curve into a pleasant smile which fails to reach his eyes.

Behind them, Harley's demeanour instantly shifts, straightening up her back and puffing out her chest she jaunts out her chin and grins, tonguing her teeth. With tears still damp on her cheeks, a low hum of laughter forms in her throat. So it transpires that her long walk of freedom is to be lead by the same man who had taken so much pleasure in throwing her behind bars over and over again? The irony of this whole charade certainly wasn't lost on her.

Bruce's gaze finally moves from Gordon to Harley, their eyes meeting for what must be the thousandth time in the most unfamiliar of settings.

"Hi"

* * *

If there was one thing Bruce had discovered about Harley Quinn over the past few years it was that inconsistency ran deep within her. She exists through episodes, a hundred different women all occupying the same 6 by 8 cell. As a result, her moral compass swings in every direction but north. Every action is met by a randomized series of reactions. In the simplest of terms, she's unpredictable, dangerously so.

Moments ago she had been rendered almost childlike, sobbing and whining, yet now she stood with her back arched like a territorial tomcat. Both feet firmly on the floor and her hands still bound in restraints as she refused to take her eyes from Bruce, even when his attention turned from her to the paperwork Gordon presented to him.

"The terms of parole for one, Harleen Quinzel." The commissioner starts as he flips through the hefty file. "For the first six months of parole she will be under house arrest; and may only leave your premises when accompanied by either yourself or a guardian of your designation."

Harley resists the urge buck her leg out as some snivelling lackey bends down to attach an ankle monitor to her right leg. The thick black strap is a harsh contrast to her pale skin.

"This ain't exactly my colour." She hisses at the nameless employee as they unlock her handcuffs before quickly retreating away.

"A federal judge has granted her immunity from all cases involving the Joker in exchange for her assistance in the apprehension of him, however, she is not exempt from future cases. If she violates her parole or commit's any further offences, she will be arrested promptly." Gordon continues to flick through the paperwork, pointing out spaces which require a signature. He briefly looks back to the young women behind them as she drags her baby blues over them both.

Everything about Bruce Wayne is so calm, so cool, so… censored. And I makes her sick to her stomach. A man walking around in such a finely crafted human mask. A man who gets his thrills from the darkest of nights, from the bruises on his chest and the broken skin on his knuckles; not from hiding in stuffy conference rooms pretending to be interested in figures and finance. At least she embraced exactly what she was instead of cowering behind a persona of normality.

"If you don't mind me asking, Mr Wayne, I just can't get my head around why you would voluntarily take on something like this." Gordon starts as Bruce finishes signing the final sheet and clicking the pen closed before handing it back.

"Figured it's time I start giving back to the community." He answers, the same dead smile playing on his face as a formality rather than a friendly gesture.

"By aiding a woman who's terrorised this city for the past three years? The same woman who's defaced thousands of dollars worth of your own property?" Harley audibly scoffs behind him.

"Everyone deserves a second chance, commissioner." Bruce answers, his voice not deviating from the same default tone it always carried. Perfectly rehearsed. That composed veneer he wears refusing to faulter. "Anything else?"

"That's it, you're free to go." Gordon remained baffled, unsure as to whether the man was just plain witless or playing it that way. He gave up the fight; if Bruce Wayne was willing to take such an ill advised venture into philanthropy, who was he to stop him?

"Thank you." The billionaire replied, handing the file back over to Gordon before reaching to shake his hand. Bruce then turned back to Harley, looking right through her, his expression frustratingly stoic as he gestures towards the exit.

"The car's waiting."

His hand runs briefly down her arm before gripping her wrist. Her pale skin feels instantly flushed and raw in his grasp as he clutches her tighter than the cuffs ever had. She flashes him the smallest of smiles, relishing in the slip of his façade. He notices but fails to react. Her grin falls. Without a second to spare he pulls on her arm, leading her along beside him. There is haste in his steps and force in his grip, but Harley knows all too well that this is a mere fraction of his strength.

"Goodbye, commissioner." She hums as she glances back to see Gordon sighing heavily in surrender before removing his glasses and rubbing his eyes.

* * *

The interior of the car produced an odour of cleanliness which was enough to overwhelm the senses upon entry. The smell alone was nauseating to Harley. Well, that and the sunlight, which despite the tinted windows, seemed to be seeping in profusely. Her adverse reaction to the natural light causes her to question just how long she had spent in solitary confinement.

After a short exchange with his driver, Bruce clambers in after her. He is quick to set the black leather armrest as a barrier between them. His phone once again finds it's way into his palm. Harley turns away from him, glaring out of the window as the city passes by.

It only takes a few moments for her to tire of the sight, for her to crave some form of confrontation. She makes a big show of clearing her throat. A tiny growl of frustration escapes her lips as she turns to see Bruce's attention still solely focused on the device in his hand.

She tries again, louder. And again, until she nearly induces a coughing fit. It is only then that the man beside her chooses to acknowledge her cry for attention.

"Something you want to say?" His eyes still fixated on the phone.

"I know why _you_ came to pick me up." She sings, tilting her head and flicking her fingers across the armrest.

"Is that so?" Bruce finally lifts his head, giving Harley the reaction she desperately craved. She grins wildly in response.

"Yeah."

"Then tell me." He leans in a little, causing her eyes to widen. The beginnings of a power struggle are forming. She likes this game. She smiles wider, mirroring him by tilting herself closer.

"You're afraid that I'll go runnin' my mouth off, telling everybody just what it is you like to do in yer spare time." Her voice is considerably lower, barely above a whisper.

Both of them become still for a moment, unflinching, until Harley notices something she can't recognise in Bruce's dark eyes. She backs away and lets her expression drop, perplexed.

He inevitably turns away from her again and back to the phone in his hand.

"You're right, that's the reason." He speaks into the air ahead of him rather than to her.

"No I'm not." She protests, but it's futile, she's already lost him.

Before their exchange can progress, the car slows, gradually coming to a halt. Harley can only marvel at the grandeur of Wayne Manor and the extensive grounds surrounding her. It certainly was a much grander sight in daylight.

Through her window, she watches as an ageing man garbed in a suit not too dissimilar to Bruce's approaches them. His dark hair is peppered with whips of white and grey and his face is long and tired; but his features remain oddly charming and kind. The man reaches for the car door and offers his hand for Harley to take.

"Alfred will get you settled in. I've got to get back to work." Bruce speaks up as she climbs out of the car. She turns back to reply but realises that it's useless. Feeling lost, she slams the door shut and watches as the car drives away.

Alfred takes her hand gently into his palm as he escorts her to the house and it strikes a sorrowful chord when she can't actually remember the last time anyone showed her a genuine act of kindness.


	3. Victim

_**A/N: So chapter 2 took a lot longer than I expected to write, sorry for the delay.**_

_**Thanks so much to everyone who has faved/follwed the story, your support is like cake to me! x**_

_**Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters, I just play with them till it hurts**_

_**XxXx**_

* * *

Victim

He hesitates, just for the slightest of moments before he rattles his knuckles against the door again. This was the third time he had knocked and his already dram patience is wearing thin. Unsatisfied with the lack of a response from the other side; Bruce reaches down for the handle and violently jostles it, forcing the door open.

The guest room he had confined her to is barely recognisable as he stumbles into it. The dresser sits precariously on its side in the middle of the floor. The clothing which used to fill it now hangs over the picture frames mounted on the walls. Shards of glass remain scattered across the floor as Bruce finds that every mirror has been shattered.

She's on the bed when he turns to her; still dressed in pyjamas and sitting comfortably cross legged. Her eyes closed. Her face appears more ashen in colour, the lines beneath her eyes darker, more prominent. Her blonde tresses look matted and straw-like piled atop of her head in a bun. Bruce glares at her in a state of mild disbelief, his jaw slack, eyes wide and hand running through his hair.

"What's this?" He starts. She doesn't care to open her eyes as she responds to him.

"Meditation." She says nonchalantly. "It's an ancient Chinese-

"Harley!"

The harshness in his tone hits her like a bolt of lightning, searing through her body. Her eyes snap open as she stairs at him in brief awe. She's never heard Bruce address anyone with such vigour. No this, this was all Batman.

When he asks her a second time, the calmness returns to his voice, and it's enough for her to surrender the fight. She tiredly blinks before answering.

"I couldn't sleep." she meets his eyes with a look which pleads for sympathy, but he brushes her off.

"You can clean this up when we get back." Bruce turns away, reaching for the only article of clothing saved from her rampage. Fingering the pastel blue dress, he carefully folded it before walking over to place it in Harley's lap.

"You've got an appointment with you're new psychiatrist."

When she fails to acknowledge him, he bends down, coming face to face with her. He addresses her with in the same manner as mother would to a unruly child. "It's in the terms of your parole, you have to go."

Unsatisfied, Harley leans back, shifting her weight to her elbows as her mouth contorts into a grin. She slowly shakes her head from side to side.

Bruce leans in further, his voice flirting with irritation.

"Get dressed."

When she causally refuses again, he doesn't react, and it infuriates her to no end. She had grown so accustomed to being brutally punished for even the mildest of misdemeanours, that she simply couldn't comprehend this new world and its lack of violence.

Bruce leans back onto his feet and moves away, turning to the door again. It was enough to ignite Harley's short fuse. She scrunches up the dress. The muted colours of the fabric had begun to make her queasy. Ever since she had arrived it had felt as though he'd been stripping her away, piece by piece. He had purchased all of her new clothes and presented her with a mild wardrobe of pastel shades. Shades designed to promote calm. Not a smidge of red in sight. Without it she felt stinted, like she was being watered-down. A supporting player in her own life.

Without much thought, she threw the dress at Bruce, hitting him square between the shoulders. He turned on instinct, hearing her as she jumped from he bed and by the time her heels reached the floor, he was already picking the garment up and walking back in her direction.

Before he can even reach her, she's already swinging her clenched fist forward. He catches it effortlessly in his palm just as she thrusts her other one towards him. The dress falls from Bruce's grasp as he captures Harley's subsequent attack and swings her body around. She finds her back flush against his chest and her wrists crossed over her own. The man makes it all look so easy, like a well rehearsed dance.

Harley winces as she struggles in his grip, her damaged shoulder throbbing. She's suddenly brought back to a time when the two of them would be practising the same routine night after night; only in derelict surroundings wearing ridiculous costumes. This has been the way he's always fought her, not offensive or even defensive, but by constricting. He envelopes her, like a straight jacket, keeping her safe from herself.

Harley keeps struggling, thrusting herself in every direction to break his hold on her body. It is only when Bruce speaks that she stills.

"I'm not gonna fight you." His voice a low hum, tickling the back of her neck. There is a calmness in it which breaks her. He kills her fight. Her ferocity simmers to passiveness. There seems to be a scarcity of air in her lungs as her knees begin to buckle under her weight.

He sinks down with her, grounding her on the bedroom floor before releasing his hold. Harley bows her head as she leans forward, steadying herself on her palms. She wants to cry but hasn't the will to commit to it. A warmth creeps along her back as Bruce leans over her. His hand reaches for her jaw; taking her chin in between his fingers her tilts her head towards him.

His face is close now, and she can't help but drag her eyes across his features. Every line of his face, the stubble on his chin, the coldness in his glare are marvels to her. Her focus moves to his mouth.

"Get. Dressed" His voice lacks humour and echoes finality as he moves away from her. The skin of her back feels cooler in his absence. Harley refrains from turning to watch as he leaves the room as abruptly as he entered. Instead she wallows in the feeling of dissatisfaction as it dwells in the pit of her stomach. The same way it does after all of their encounters.

With frustration building to rage within her body again, all she wants to do is thrash and scream till her voice gives out. She urges to rip the furnishings from the walls, the tiles from the bathroom and decimate every measly thing he's brought for her.

Be she doesn't.

Instead she slips out of the pyjamas and pulls the dress over her head. Turning to catch her drab reflection in the window, she reaches for a hairbrush.

* * *

The backrest of the chair is too rigid, the fabric covering it sparing no comfort as the wooden frame underneath digs into Harley's shoulder blades. She leans back, eyes narrow, stubborn, as she watches the lips of the man before her dance beneath his heavy moustache. She hadn't caught his name, Dr. Miller, Morris, Moore…? She wasn't really listening.

His voice monotonous as he droned on, but she does catch something about impaired cognitive processing. Dr M seems to think that she's severed the connections people usually make in their mind when presented with foreign stimuli and in turn created new, abstract ones through years of 'conditioning'. After all, you can convince a scholar that the sky is green if you beat them hard and often enough. And of course, her mind was more susceptible to these failures in communication due to her underline tendencies to dabble in the realm of psychotic personality disorders.

She wasn't stupid, she had done the math. This was all stuff that she had already heard, mulled over and tried to fix herself. You can lead a horse to water but you can't aid it in differentiating between reality and fantasy when it comes to self-diagnosed schizophrenia.

Harley phases out while he continues talking and glances around at the small square room they sit in. His office, where everything fits in with the stereotypical vision of a shrink. Where nothing deviates from the norm. She briefly wonders if the man has ever had an original thought in his life.

Turning to her left, she sees Bruce, sharply dressed as usual and learning forward in his chair. His hands are clasped together and his elbows rest on his lap; his eyes never straying from Dr M. He mimics the role of a man in deep thought, carefully mulling over every bit of jargon that spills from the good doctor's mouth.

But she can tell by the way he purses his lips every so often and the way his fingers tap together that he is just as bored as she is.

When Harley turns back to the doctor, something out of place catches her eye. A slight glimmer from a snow globe sat atop of his desk amongst the high brow garbage. There was something so wonderfully childish about it that she had to reach forward and take it into her hands. There was a moment of silence when both men stopped to glance in her direction before continuing their conversation.

Harley moved the globe in her palm, running her fingers across the solid base and over the raised lettering of 'Gotham City'. Small replicas of the city's most distinctive buildings sit in its centre, submerged in water, surrounded by flakes of glitter. The idea that something so simple could bring joy to an innocent soul causes her cheeks to heat up and the corners of her lips to turn up in a small smile.

It's a feeling so alien to her that she becomes all of a sudden bewildered by it. It seemed only natural that she take the glass globe into her palm and slam it down onto the arm of her chair.

The glass shatters on impact, sending shards flying outwards and becoming embedded in her hand. Dr M jumps up from his seat, backing away from Harley as she arms herself with a large shard and points it in his direction. Blood flows freely from her open wounds down her forearm before congealing on the floor.

There is a sharp tug as Bruce is already beside her, taking both of her wrists into his hands and forcing her to face him. He turns to bark something she doesn't hear to the doctor as he vacates the office. She feels him jostle her limb until she allows the glass to drop from her grasp. She keeps her eyes on Bruce as he lowers himself to his knees in front of her, taking her bloodied hand into his own. There is a gentleness in the way he handles her, it's slow and careful as he inspects her palm.

Bruce hesitates for a moment before shuffling his shoulders out of his suit jacket, his hands leaving Harley's skin for just a moment as he frees his arms from the garment. A moment passes and she feels him take her hand again, the sensation is pleasantly numbing to her. The billionaire briefly looks back up to her face, failing to scold her for her outburst. Instead he offers her a look which is somehow akin to understanding.

Harley allows herself to be captivated by his expression, finding the briefest moment of refuge before her hand becomes engulfed in searing pain as he pulls a sizeable shard from her flesh. Blood quickly pools from the open wound, prompting Bruce to wrap the sleeve of his jacket tightly around her palm. She watches as the starchy fabric quickly darkens to carmine before flicking her eyes back to the man before her. They remain silent, unflinching. His hold never leaves hers.

Bruce's hand is already up, waving away the burly security guard as he busts through the office door moments later. The large man nods his head in acknowledgement before glaring at the young woman. He prepares himself for a subsequent outburst which never materialises. Instead she behaves, allowing herself to focus on the pain.

Pain is what used to bind her to The Joker, it used to be a feeling so intertwined with love that she didn't know the difference between the two. She was taught that people hit, kicked and maimed the ones they adored. But now she realises that the burning sensation in her palm, this pain, something she's grown so accustomed to, is a feeling she loathes. The gentle hold on her skin, the fingertips stroking circles on the back of her hand, that's affection.

* * *

Weeks later, they're dining like civilians in an up-scale restaurant in the side of town Harley isn't familiar with. A life amongst the privileged was never something within her reach. Heads turn as they make their entrance, most of them marvelling Bruce's celebrity, but a small minority displaying a look of recognition when confronted with Harley's face. It may have only been a few, but it was enough to knock her ever-fluctuating esteem down a few pegs. In defence, she began tugging on her dress, ensuring that the floor-skimming length covered the monitor strapped to her ankle.

The terms of Harley's probation required her to visit her psychiatrist twice a week. But given her initial meeting with Dr M, he seemed a little reluctant to continue their relationship. It was only when Bruce exchanged hushed words with the man that he agreed to see her again. The doctor was insistent that she was making progress, no matter how protracted it was. Harley wasn't so sure.

Her relationship with Bruce also seemed to dwindle, with the man only stepping in when he deemed absolutely necessary; when episodes of mania occurred. He was always fringing around her, never crossing the barriers he put in place to keep her at a distance.

She had grown accustomed to life at Wayne manor, to hearing of Bruce's nightlife via every media outlet in the city. To becoming familiar with a new race of wannabe super-villains who relentlessly attempted but never succeeded to get under the skin of Gotham's infamous Batman.

In daylight, they played mundane, dining across from one another in a fancy restaurant. They were never going to be ordinary, but it was something Bruce strives for in the public eye. The meal remains pleasantly sedate and uneventful, the conversation carefully constructed of basic small talk; nothing bordering on intimate.

But the vision of normality quickly begins to collapse by the time the waitress comes to collect dishes. A snippet of classical music playing just within earshot of the table provokes the most abnormal of reactions. The glass in Harley's hand silently slips from her grip and shatters upon contact with the marble floor. Her eyes widen in a fear that is so visceral, so brutal that she can only answer it with a scream.

In the split-seconds following, something Dr M had said runs though Bruce's mind.

_Triggers._

Even the slightest of triggers can induce a catastrophic breakdown. A harrowing reminder that when it came to Harley, stability was always going to be something just out of reach.

She bolts from the table, barging though a sea of befuddled diners before forcing her way past the front desk and into the street. Bruce's reflex kicks in, handing his wallet to the waitress before he takes off after Harley, knowing that her arrest will be imminent if the distance between them becomes too great.

He hurries himself along the busy sidewalk until he finds her about a block away. She's sitting hunched over on the curb with her knees pressed to her chest and her head buried in her hands. He dashes to reach her before a well-doer takes the plunge. Harley is oblivious to him at first, her shoulders shaking as her body is stricken with involuntary sobs. She feels Bruce's hand as it takes a firm hold on her arm from behind and wails in distress as she's forcefully hoisted to her feet. Assuming that he'll drag her back inside, she begins to struggle in his hold, shoving her elbows back in an attempt the break free. But he never does haul her away. Instead he swings her around, his fingers slink into her hair as he pushes her face to his chest and tightly wraps his other arm around her back.

Taken aback briefly, Harley finally succumbs to his embrace, and cries into his body. Her own hands snake around his waist, clutching at the back of his shirt and balling the fabric into her fists. The public glance in their direction, but do little to interrupt them.

To be held was a feat that Harley had not achieved since childhood. To just bask in the warmth of another human was something so empowering to her. For once she didn't feel alone, she felt safe, as though her misery had finally found company.


End file.
